We Agreed He Needed The space
by consultingat221b
Summary: Sherlock turns up at Molly's flat one night, asking for a place to stay due to an experiment gone wrong. She leaves him alone for twenty minutes with a bottle of beer and he gets into all sorts of trouble. So, Molly takes care of the Consulting Detective. Sherlolly fluff with a tiny bit of angst. My first attempt at writing fluff and a oneshot. Rated T for alcohol consumption.


_Hello! This is the first one-shot I have ever uploaded. It is basically just Sherlolly fluff with a bit of angst and it is super short and rushed, but I hope you enjoy! Sorry if the writing seems rush (that's probably because it is!) This is certainly the worst writing I have done since I started uploading fanfics, sorry! I'll upload it anyway._

_By the way, this happens before TSOT and in this universe the first time Sherlock has ever drunk anything on that stag, I think I have given out a few spoilers but still, this is just drabble and me attempting to be spontaneous. Tom does not exist… (Sorry, Tom)._

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or the characters etc, they all belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss._

_My Tumblr is also consultingat221b, by the way, so feel free to check that out!_

* * *

Molly Hooper had drifted off a couple of hours ago. She had a very early night. It was a chilly, winter evening and she shivered as she indulged herself in the warmth of her own bed before falling asleep. Toby had curled up on the pillow so she didn't have as much space as she normally would, but the cat's vague purrs were soothing to Molly's unconscious body.

That's when she woke up. A loud knocking at the door startled her. She lobbed the weighted duvet and gasped for air because the viciously firm knock had shocked her.

Molly groaned and covered her ear with the pillow to block out the knocking. She wondered why the culprit of the deafening banging had not bothered to use the doorbell.

"Molly!" The muffled, low, baritone voice came from behind the door. Molly could faintly make out the speaker. It was Sherlock.

"Molly! I know you are inside you're flat; you unconsciously straighten the door mat when you leave and move it out-of-place when you re-enter. It's out of place now, so you're definitely in there."

She moaned. She was feeling drowsy, since she had only just woken up.

"Sorry, Toby," She whispered as she moved away from the peaceful tabby cat.

She slipped her petite arms through the sleeves of a dressing gown. She rubbed her groggy, tired eyes and stifled a yawn before attempting to open her bedroom door. Molly placed her hand on the door knob, twisted it and staggered through the open gap. She edged backwards so that she could slide her diminutive feet into some fluffy slippers that she had placed under her bed. The wooden floor was too cold. So, the kind warmth of her slippers protected her fragile, soft skin from prickling with goose pimples.

"Sherlock, _I'm coming_," She whimpered, still half asleep.

Of course, hearing his voice was always pleasing. Whenever Sherlock spoke his unique voice resonated and surrounded the area. When Sherlock spoke to Molly she was instantly captivated.

As she approached the door she could see a blurred silhouette. Curly hair and a raised coat collar was his signature look. She held back a grin by pursing her lips. Why had he come to see her?

She unlocked the door from the inside and tried to compose herself. She opened the door slowly; she wanted to not look too desperately excited to see the Consulting Detective.

"Sherlock? Hi! Um, what are you doing here at this time of night?"

"It's not too late and need a place to stay."

"Possibly, you could stay at your flat? Could you not?"

He shook his head, "Too dangerous. I dropped a glass full of a toxic liquid and it released some gas. I won't insult you by explaining the chemistry behind it. However, it could technically suffocate me and that is not a risk I'm willing to take. I am too important to London and Scotland Yard."

Molly giggled; his strange self-obsessed behaviour was sort of fascinating to the young woman. It was then that she realised she was twiddling her hazel hair around her dainty fingers. She stopped instantly.

"Sure, come in. You're always welcome."

Sherlock had entered Molly's flat before she managed to finish her sentence.

He swiftly slipped his slender body out of his signature coat. He placed it on a hook and instantly stormed further into the pathologist's flat. He seemed shocked to discover that there was not much space. He looked around and made his way into her diminutive but comfortable living room.

"It's not much, I'm afraid. I guess it is home, though."

"It will be more than sufficient for one night, where's my bedroom?"

"I don't actually have a spare bedroom…. You could use mine. I wouldn't be in there, obviously!" Molly blushed, "I can use the sofa, I can fit on that but you're too, erm, tall for it. You need the space."

"Thank you, Molly Hooper. I don't particularly do much sleeping. Nevertheless, I prefer to lie on a proper bed."

"You can relax in the living room for a bit. I fell asleep too early but it's only nine o'clock."

"I know," Sherlock replied.

Molly smile affectionately and broke eye contact with the tall man. She didn't want him to stare ate the obvious dilation of her pupils. She couldn't control that though, Sherlock looked so beautiful in the contours of the dim lighting. She made her way to her kitchen.

"Do you fancy a beer?" She blurted. She was trying to be friendly, but she felt like she had been harsh to the detective by offering him something alcoholic. He probably didn't drink anyway; it would slow his racing mind down.

"Oh," He muttered. He had never sipped beer before. In fact, he had never drunk alcohol before. But he knew that Molly had accepted him as a guest and she would not want him to return if he was rude. Besides, he might blow up his flat one day and need a place to stay. Beer wasn't strong, it would have a minimal effect on him, "Okay, I will have one. Thank you."

"Help yourself to a bottle, I am going to feed Toby," She had fed Toby earlier, but she needed ten minutes away from the detective. It was too much to process the idea that _he_ was genuinely in _her_ home.

Sherlock walked cautiously towards a cupboard that Molly had gestured towards. He slipped his hefty hand around the handle and opened the cupboard. He widened his eyes a little; he had not expected the mousey pathologist to own so much alcohol. There were cans and bottles of many drinks.

He hadn't tasted beer before. So, he grabbed the tackiest looking bottle. He did not want Molly to think that he was being too high-maintenance by grabbing an expensive looking bottle. The one he grabbed had previously been opened, but not drunk and the lid was secured with an elastic band. The bottle looked the least respected, and he did not think it could taste that awful, so he carried the glass bottle warily back to the living room and prompted himself on the couch.

He slipped the lid off of the bottle and took a relatively large sip; from what he knew he could not become intoxicated off a small, weak bottle of beer. He couldn't be_ that_ much of a lightweight. It was weird; he expected it to taste sweeter. It was sour and the taste shocked him so much that he swallowed it abruptly and it burned the soft back of his throat. He cringed.

That was odd.

* * *

Molly realised that she had lain down with Toby for nearly twenty minutes. The time had ticked by so quickly because she had cuddled her soft cat and lost track of time. It was always cosy in the presence of an adorable, friendly cat.

She thought it was about time to return to Sherlock now. She sighed and braced herself; Molly did not want to make a fool out of herself in front of Sherlock. She inhaled before walking into the living room.

She opened the door quickly and happily bounced into the room. Sherlock was curled up on the couch, groaning.

"Sherlock?"

"I feel dizzy? Am I meant to feel dizzy and giddy?" He asked, while noticeably slurring his words.

"How many bottles of beer did you have?" She asked sarcastically, "Stop joking around…" She stared at the man who was pouting his lips and staring at her.

She widened her eyes. Sherlock Holmes was not joking. The groans of the consulting detective were genuine, he looked _beyond_ tipsy.

"I'm not joking, I'm incapable of a sense of not morbid humour and you would be offended if I joking... I don't understand, I feel _not right._"

Molly glimpsed down at the drink on the table and bit her lip, hard, as a punishment to herself for being so careless.

"Sherlock! That's not beer! I'm so sorry. Okay, okay, I didn't mean for this to happen. You have had half a bottle of gin. How did you _not_ realise it was a strong spirit? I'm so stupid. It was left in a jug after a party and the bottle it was supposed to be inside smashed, so I had to make do. I poured it into an empty beer bottle. Oh my. This was never... I would never do this on purpose..."

"Molly Hopper."

"Hopper? It's Hooper," She corrected him.

"No, hopping… I apologise. Forgive me. But you are not stupid, don't say that about you."

"Sherlock, you can't think straight. I'm an idiot. I let you drink something that's 40%... Have you even drunk alcohol before?"

"No drunk," He slurred whilst stumbling to his feet and edging towards Molly. However, in his intoxicated body the room was twirling around dizzily so he tripped and plummeted on his side. He then started to giggle like a child.

"I think you are, Sherlock," she laughed slightly. This was not a sight she had ever expected to see.

"I have drinked before, my pathologist," Sherlock incoherently informed her, "Just never the alcohol…"

Had he really just called her his pathologist? Molly felt a warm glow inside her chest.

"Okay, that explains why you're completely _wasted_ now, and so quickly. Oh, look at the state of you! This is my entire fault," Molly looked at the swaying man sympathetically.

"I don't mind having a bit of dizziness and intoxicated for you, Molly."

Molly stared at Sherlock affectionately. Although she could barely understand what he meant. He was actually adorable when he was completely drunk. He was _so_ human.

"Right, erm, um," She stammered, "I'm taking you to my room."

"Steady on!"

"What? Sherlock, wait. No, no, no. I just think you need to sit down, drink some water, eat some bread and go to sleep… On. Your. Side."

Sherlock looked at her with wide eyes. He tried to back away from her but only succeeded in whacking his boozy head against the coffee table. Molly lunged forwards and supported his skeletal body.

"You're making me eat edible things! I don't need food," Sherlock whined like a toddler. Molly looked at the man with a sincere expression of concern, she hated to think about how careless he was with his health.

"You really do. And you will feel better in the morning."

Sherlock put an arm around Molly's petite shoulders. She was not expecting him to transfer all of his weight on her, so she felt her small body get dragged down until they were both lying on the floor laughing.

Eventually, Molly managed to get Sherlock into her bedroom. That was something she never thought she'd be able to say.

"What's this fluffball thing?" Sherlock said while prodding Toby, who immediately arched his back and hissed at the man, before prowling away.

"That's Toby," She looked back at Toby, "Be nice to Sherlock… He's a friend," She said. Sherlock was still edging closer and squinting at Toby, "He's my cat."

"Really? I thought he was my new experiment!"

"No!" Molly scowled angrily at Sherlock who winced and gave her the most puppy-like expression a man in his mid thirties could possibly fathom. She sighed, "Don't you dare perform any experiments on my cat."

Molly stood up and quickly ran to her kitchen, poured some tap water in a plastic bottle, grabbed a piece of bread, considered toasting it and then decided otherwise and then returned to Sherlock who was now rolling on the floor next to Toby.

"Up you get," she said while slipping her arms under Sherlock's armpits.

"You're stronger than Lestrade! Molly is not weak!" He cheered, "He could never pick me up even when I was _nearly_ deaded from drugs and overdoses," Sherlock stated this so innocently and Molly stared at him and felt her heart sink lower that the Titanic in her chest.

"Oh, Sherlock…"

"What?"

"You. Your history with drugs and looking so sad most the time… I wish I could do _something_. I want you to be okay, because I can tell you aren't."

"You can feed me bread and lift me up."

Molly looked down sorrowfully and stifled a fake smile.

"I know, but I wish I could do more. I'm sorry that you ended up like this, you'd probably be better in your flat with some terrible gas."

"I'm better here with my pathologist. I'm always better around you, Molly. You are a _humaniser_," Sherlock slurred naïvely while he nuzzled into Molly's mattress.

"Eat the bread. Sorry, I'm not much help but it's the best I can do."

"You help me more than anyone else. You look beyond the cold, heartless sociopath they all see and that's why you've always counted. You matter."

Sherlock took a bite and a large gulp of water. When he finished he looked around the room like a little child would. He coud not see the lovely Molly, and he felt calmer when she was in his vision. And then he sat up and looked Molly in the eye.

Molly beamed at Sherlock, and then her smile faded and she looked at him apologetically.

"It's okay, I'm lucky to have you look after me, Molly-Not-Hopper," Molly giggled at the ridiculously delightful sound of what Sherlock was saying, and she bit her lip.

He hurled his weak body up until he was at Molly's level. The pathologist saw him gently getting closer to her face, so she rotated her mousey head slightly, waiting for the kiss that he would affectionately plant on her cheek.

Except, her cheek was left untouched by Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock held his soft, defined hands up to Molly's cheeks and pecked her peach lips, and then he retreated as if the event had never happened.

He reclined on the bed and tiredly rested his head on her spongy pillows. She exhaled loudly, her mouth still wide open from the shock of what had just occurred.

"Goodnight, Molly Hooper," He murmured before passing out on her bed.

Toby prowled over to he man and started purring and padding at the sheets. She stroked her beautiful cat. Molly then took hold of Sherlock's limp body and rotated him so he was safely lying on his side. She knew that she would have to walk in regularly to check on the detective. However, she didn't mind doing this. She tenderly planted a small kiss on his warm cheek, and then tiptoed out of her room with Toby following.

She needed to relax on the couch and process the strange events of that evening. Perhaps, with a cup of tea... And without and gin.


End file.
